


Urgency of Sound

by theskywasblue



Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite
Genre: M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The band gives them a voice</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urgency of Sound

The truth is that Ghost really isn’t much of a singer; there’s too much gravel in his voice and he doesn’t even try to hit the right notes – all he cares about is getting the words out. Steve can play guitar, but it’s all by heart and ear. If Ghost thinks about it too hard, he realizes Lost Souls? isn’t really a band – it’s this beautiful, imperfect thing spun together from the few chords that he and Steve taught themselves in high school and the dreams that Ghost writes down on paper.

Somehow it holds together, though – that’s the beauty of it. If not for the music, who would want to listen to them – two small town boys, college dropouts who like nothing so much as weed and wine, one with too much temper and the other permanently a few steps off center. The band gives them a voice and a reason, and the truth is they love it; more than late, weed-sweetened nights, more than going too fast in down the highway in the T-bird with the windows open.

And up on that stage – in the Yew, or in any other club they’ve played, on the dark streets of big cities or off unpaved back roads outside small towns – it’s like old-world magic. They may be the ones with the set list and their names on a hand-painted sign outside the door, but the audience sings to them as much as they sing to the audience, a primal exchange of energy and passion – hundreds of souls spinning into one; Ghost feels it up against his skin, hears it buzzing in his ears like feedback off a microphone, and after the lights go down, it’s better than any high. Steve might not hear it the same way that Ghost does, but he feels it.

Sometimes, after a really great set, they stagger into the shadows backstage, giddy, laughing with hoarse voices, skin tingling and slick with sweat from the scorching lights, strung out on everything they’ve accomplished as they shed their instruments like trees shed leaves and knock together like a pair of atoms in a chemical reaction. Hands tapping together become bodies bouncing off one another, become fists tangled in sweaty T-shirts as Steve’s back hits the wall near the fire exit and Ghost tries not to fall into him even though he wants to.

Steve’s fingers taste raw from the guitar strings as they skirt Ghosts lips and slip over his chin, down his throat, tucking almost guiltily into Ghost’s collar. It’s dark and there’s no one watching, but there’s still panic in his eyes; he’s still a small town, North Carolina boy, so Ghost slides his hand over the space above Steve’s heart and murmurs “Don’t freak out, okay?” before they kiss.

There’s static between their lips, sharp and sweet and Steve’s all broken out in violent shivers because it’s about ten degrees colder backstage than out under the lights, whispering in between their beer-sticky mouths, “I’m not freaking out,” giving no resistance as Ghost’s fingers slip inside his jeans and brush against skin that’s as soft as velvet, wet with sweat and so, so warm.

His bones rattle when Ghost touches him like this, but Steve’s not freaking out; no matter how fast his heart races, no matter how tightly they wrap their bodies together, Steve isn’t freaking out at all. The truth is, in the back of his mind – and in the back of Ghost’s too – he’s ecstatic, he’s wild, he’s singing.

And he has the most beautiful voice.

-End-


End file.
